Whenever possible, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço comes to the estate to rehearse the sermons he has written, the walls here have an excellent echo, sufficient to make the words ring, yet without any of those loud reverberations that convey the sound but end up obliterating meaning. This is how the words of the prophets must have sounded in the desert or the public square, locations without walls, or at least without walls in the immediate vicinity, and therefore unaffected by the laws of acoustics, the eloquence of words depends on the instrument rather than on the ears that listen or the walls that cause them to reverberate. These holy sermons require the ambience of a graceful oratory with chubby angels and saints in ecstasy, with much swirling of robes, shapely arms, curvaceous thighs, ample bosoms, and much rolling of eyes, which proves that all roads lead not to Rome but to the gratification of the flesh. The priest takes enormous pains with his diction, especially since there is someone here to listen, but, either because of the inhibiting presence of the flying machine or because of the indifference of his audience, the phrases fail to soar or resound and the priest’s words become muddled and one can scarcely believe that this is the same Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço whose fame as an orator has provoked comparisons with that of Padre António Vieira, whom may God watch over as he was once watched over by the Inquisition. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço was here to rehearse the sermon he was about to deliver at Salvaterra de Magos, where the King and his court were in residence, a sermon for the feast of the Nuptials of St Joseph, which he had been invited to deliver by the Dominican friars, therefore it is clearly no great disadvantage to be known as the Flying Man and to be regarded as being somewhat eccentric, if even the followers of St Dominic solicit your services, not to mention the King himself, who is still young and amuses himself playing with toys, this explains why the King protects Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço and why he has such an enjoyable time with the nuns in their convents as he gets them pregnant one after another, or several at a time, and when the King’s story is finally told, historians will be able to list the scores of children he fathered in this way, pity the poor Queen, what would have become of her had it not been for her father confessor, Padre António Stieff of the Society of jesus, who counselled resignation, and those dreams in which the Infante Dom Francisco appeared with the corpses of sailors dangling from the pommels of his mules, and what would have become of Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço if the Dominicans who commissioned the sermon had arrived unexpectedly and discovered his flying machine, the maimed Baltasar, the clairvoyant Blimunda, and the preacher in full spate, chiselling fine phrases and perhaps concealing thoughts that Blimunda would not perceive even if she were to fast for a whole year.
Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço finishes his sermon but he is not interested in knowing whether he has edified his audience, and is content to inquire somewhat distractedly, Well, then, did you enjoy that, whereupon the others hasten to assure him, We most certainly did, however, they reply much too forcefully, and their hearts betray no signs of having understood what they have heard, and if their hearts have not understood, the words that come to their lips are an expression
of bewilderment rather than of cunning. Baltasar went back to hammering his irons while Blimunda swept up the discarded fragments of cane in the yard, the diligence with which they worked giving the impression that their tasks were urgent, but the priest suddenly declared, like someone unable to suppress his anxiety any longer, At this rate I shall never fly my machine, his voice sounded tired, and he made a gesture of such profound despair that Baltasar suddenly realising the futility of his labours, laid down his hammer, but anxious to avoid giving any impression of giving up, he suggested, We must build a forge here and temper the irons, otherwise even the weight of the Passarola will cause them to bend, and the priest replied, I don’t mind if they bend, the important thing is that my machine should fly, and it simply can’t be done until we have obtained ether, What is ether, Blimunda asked, That’s what keeps the stars in the sky, And how can it be brought down here, asked Baltasar, By means of alchemy, about which I know nothing, but you must not mention these things to anyone, whatever happens, Then what shall we do, I shall leave shortly for Holland, which is a nation of learned men, and there I shall study the art of extracting ether from the atmosphere in order to filter it into the globes, because without ether the machine will never be able to fly, What’s the good of this ether, asked Blimunda, It’s part of the general principle that attracts human beings and even inanimate objects to the sun once they’re released from their earthly weight, Put that into simple words, Father, Well before the machine can rise into the air, it’s essential that the sun should attract the amber that is attached to the wires on top, which in turn will attract the ether we’ll have filtered into the globes, the ether will then attract the magnets below, which in turn will attract the metal plates that form the body of the ship. Only then can we rise into the air assisted by the wind, or by air fanned by the bellows should the wind drop, but, as I said before, without any ether, the other materials serve no purpose. Blimunda interrupted him, If the sun attracts the amber, and the amber attracts the ether, and the ether attracts the magnets, and the magnets attract the metal, the machine will be drawn toward the sun without being able to stop. She paused and thought aloud, I wonder what the sun is like inside. The priest explained, We won’t have to go near the sun, to avoid any such collision there will be sails on top, which we can open and close as required, so that we can stop at the altitude we choose. He also paused before concluding, As for knowing what the sun is like inside, let’s get the machine airborne first and the rest will follow, so long as we’re determined to succeed and God doesn’t thwart our efforts.
Yet these are difficult times. The nuns of St Monica are about to rebel, in open defiance of the King’s edict that they consort in the convent parlour only with their parents, children, brothers, sisters, and relatives to the second degree, a measure with which the King is resolved to put an end to the scandals provoked by noble and not-so-noble philanderers who have a penchant for the brides of Christ and make them pregnant in less time than it takes to recite the Ave Maria, if Dom João V, does it, it is to his credit, but not when it is any old João or José. The provincial superior at Graça was asked to intervene in order to calm the nuns down and try to persuade them to obey the King’s orders under threat of excommunication, but to no avail, incensed and outraged, three hundred nuns overcome by sacred wrath at the idea of being cut off from secular life rebelled and defied the edict time and time again and, as if to prove how dainty feminine hands can force doors open, they took to the streets, dragging the prioress with them by force, holding the crucifix aloft, they marched in procession, until they were confronted by the friars from Graça, who begged of them in the name of Christ’s five sacred wounds to end their mutiny, a holy colloquium ensuing then and there between friars and nuns, each side arguing their case, the crisis resulted in the magistrate’s running to the King to ask whether or not he should suspend the Order, and between the comings and goings to discuss the matter, the morning soon passed for, anxious to make an early start, the rebellious nuns had been on their feet since dawn, and while they waited for the magistrate to come back and report there was much toing and froing and, after hours of standing the older nuns sat on the ground, while the excited novices remained on the alert, all of them rejoicing in the warmth of that summer day, which is always so spiritually uplifting, bemused at the sight of those who passed or stopped to stare, for these were pleasures nuns could not enjoy every day, and they chatted freely with whomsoever they pleased, using this opportunity to renew their association with the forbidden visitors who now rushed to the scene and between secret pacts, knowing gestures, quiet rendezvous, and coded signals with hands and handkerchiefs, the hours passed until noon, when the nuns began to get hungry and started to eat the sweetmeats they had brought in their knapsacks, for those who go to war must carry their own provisions, and the demonstration ended with a countermand from the Palace, whereby things became as lax as before, the nuns of St Monica were overjoyed when they received the news and sang hymns of praise and there was one further consolation, when the provincial sent them a formal pardon by messenger rather than come in person, just in case he might be the victim of a stray bullet, for revolts staged by nuns are the most dangerous of hostilities. These women are often condemned against their will to perpetual seclusion in some convent in order to protect the family fortunes in favour of the male heir, where they are trapped for life so that even the simple pleasure of holding hands through the grilles, or having some amorous encounter or sweet embrace is bliss, even if it should lead to hell and damnation. For, after all, if the sun attracts the amber and the world attracts the flesh, someone must gain something, even if it is only to take advantage of what has been left behind by those who were born to possess everything.
Another predictable vexation is the auto-da-fé, not for the Church, which regards it as a means of strengthening the faith, along with its other advantages, and not for the King, who, having hauled a number of Brazilian plantation owners before the Inquisition, wastes no time in expropriating their lands, but for those who are flogged in public, sent into exile, or burned at the stake and just as well that there was only one woman sentenced to death for immorality on this occasion, for it will not take long to paint her portrait and hang it in the Church of St Dominic, alongside all those other portraits of women whose depraved bodies have been roasted alive and whose ashes have been dispersed, yet, surprisingly enough, the torture and agony of so many does not appear to deter others, so one can only assume that human beings like to suffer or have greater esteem for their spiritual convictions than for the preservation of their bodies, God clearly did not know what He was doing when He created Adam and Eve. What is one to make of cases such as that of the professed nun who turned out to be Jewish and was sentenced to life imprisonment and solitary confinement, or the recent case of the woman from Angola who arrived here from Rio de Janeiro and was accused of being Jewish, or that merchant from the Algarve who asserted that every man is saved according to the faith he upholds, for all faiths are equal, and Christ is worth as much as Mohammed, the Gospel as much as the Cabala, the sweet as much as the bitter, sin as much as virtue, or that strapping mulatto of dubious origin from Caparica whose name is Manuel Mateus, no relation to Sete-Sóis, but is known to his friends as Saramago and whose notoriety as a sorcerer led to his being tortured and condemned with three young women who were found guilty of similar offences, what is one to make of these heretics and the other one hundred and thirty who have been brought before the Inquisition, many of whom will soon be keeping Blimunda’s mother company if she is still alive.
Sete-Sóis and Sete-Luas, two such lovely names that it seems a pity not to use them, did not come from São Sebastião da Pedreira to the Rossio to watch the auto-da-fé, but nearly everyone else flocked to watch the spectacle, and from eye-witness accounts and the official records that always survive despite the numerous earthquakes and fires, we know what and whom they saw being sentenced to torture, to the stake or exile, the black woman from Angola, the mulatto from Caparica, the Jewish nun, those impostors masquerading as priests who said Mass, confessed, and preached without any authority to do so, the judge from Arraiolos who had jewish blood on both his father’s and his mother’s side of the family, some one hundred and thirty-seven miscreants altogether, for the Holy Office of the Inquisition tries to cast its nets as widely as possible, in order to ensure that they will be full, thus obeying Christ’s mandate when He told Saint Peter that He wanted him to be a fisher of men.
The great sorrow shared by Baltasar and Blimunda is that they do not possess a net capable of dragging down those stars along with the ether which keeps them suspended in mid-air, according to Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, who is about to leave them and cannot say when he will return. The Passarola, which had started out looking like a castle under construction, is now like a tower in ruins, a Babel rudelyinterrupted without warning, and cords, canvas, wires, and irons are all in disarray and they no longer even have the consolation of opening the chest and studying the design, for the priest is carrying it in his luggage, he departs tomorrow, is travelling by sea, and with no greater risk than one might expect from the hazards of a sea journey, for peace with France has finally been declared, the signing of the peace treaty warranting a solemn procession of judges, magistrates, and bailiffs on horseback, followed by the trumpeters and buglers, then the palace footmen bearing silver maces on their shoulders, and behind them seven kings-at-arms wearing sumptuous robes, and the last of them carrying in one hand the parchment that formally declared peace, the treaty was read first of all in the Palace Square below the King’s apartments, from where the royal family could look down on the crowds who filled the courtyard, the palace guards standing in formation and after the treaty was read out in the King’s presence, it was read out once more in the Praça de Sé, and a third time in the hospital grounds adjoining the Rossio and now that a peace treaty has been signed with France, treaties with other nations will follow, But who will give me back the hand I’ve lost, Baltasar muses sadly, Don’t worry, between us we have three hands, Blimunda reassures him.
Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço gave his blessing to the soldier and the clairvoyant and they kissed his hand, but at the last moment all three embraced, for friendship was stronger than reverence, and the priest said, Farewell, Blimunda, farewell, Baltasar, Look after each other and take care of the Passarola, for I shall return one day with the secret substance I mean to obtain, it will be neither gold nor diamonds, but the very air God Himself breathes, guard the key I gave you safely, and when you leave for Mafra, remember to pass by here from time to time to inspect my machine, you may enter and leave without permission, for the King has entrusted me with the estate and he knows what is stored here, and with these words the priest mounted his mule and departed.